


Fall into grace

by my_deer_friend, Pink_raspberry



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Era, Developing Relationship, Hamliza (just a bit at the end), I think we both cried at some point while writing this, Lams - Freeform, M/M, Mutual Pining, Schuylkill river incident, but in reverse, for reals, pure angst, religious themes but only kinda, this is a lil gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:27:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25470877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_deer_friend/pseuds/my_deer_friend, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_raspberry/pseuds/Pink_raspberry
Summary: When Alexander Hamilton gets injured coming off his horse at the battle of Brandywine, John Laurens is sent to burn flour mills along the Schuylkill river instead.They aren’t back yet, and Alexander is worried. John is not the right person to be leading this mission.Perhaps he shouldn’t have let himself get attached, after all.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Comments: 56
Kudos: 77





	1. Consign me not to darkness

**Author's Note:**

> A collab brought to you by my_deer_friend and Pink_raspberry.
> 
> New chapter coming out daily!

Alexander Hamilton hunches over his rickety work table, grinding his teeth in frustration as he writes out the seventh copy of Washington’s latest general order; they’re moving headquarters again, a necessary but excruciating precaution as they quickly lose ground to the British forces homing in on Philadelphia.

His knee and ankle throb, adding injury to the insult that he is _here_ , stuck at this menial work, while John Laurens and his little unit are _out_ _there_ doing something useful. This should have been his mission, as much because he’s earned it as because he’s good at this kind of covert work - resourceful, hardy, subtle. 

These are _not_ adjectives he’d use to describe Laurens.

And that’s the other thing - Alexander is genuinely worried. John is not the right person to be leading this action. 

He voices his concerns to the General privately when the mission is announced. Laurens is too fresh, barely a month on staff; he’s impulsive and reckless, if his charges at Brandywine are anything to go by; he’s brave, yes, but also quick to ignore orders, which endangers the men with him. And even more importantly, he’s too valuable. Any tools they can use to grease the wheels of this unwieldy and under-resourced military machine are precious, and getting access to the son of the President is a major coup. 

But his well-reasoned arguments are to no avail - after Hamilton’s disqualifying injuries coming off his horse during the battle at the Brandywine River a week ago, Washington has no other options and the flour stores along the Schuylkill _must_ be destroyed. 

And Hamilton will not voice the even deeper source of his unease. He cannot afford to distract himself further right now by picturing the wry twist of Laurens’ mouth or the stretch of his well-tailored coat across his broad shoulders. Or by reminding himself of the sharp, earnest way Laurens looks at him when he thinks Alexander isn’t paying attention. Or by musing on the way that - after a few drinks have eroded their inhibitions just enough - they gravitate towards each other and exchange deniable little touches or insinuations or moments of intense eye contact that they do not name the following morning.

No, Alexander has no intention of becoming attached. It never ends well, and he wouldn’t wish the unlucky fate that comes with this entanglement on Laurens. 

Besides, he doesn’t have the time, and these damnable orders will not copy themselves.

He will deny to everyone that this late night at this desk is any sort of vigil - he’s not _worried_ , he’s _busy_ \- but he keeps glancing up to see if he can catch sight of the returning horses. They really should be back by now.

After another hour of stewing in pain and worry, he’s made uncharacteristically little progress on his paperwork. He’s just about to stand so he can stretch out his knotted back and bruised, aching leg when there are clattering bootsteps on the path outside. Thank god! He steps into the corridor as he hears the muffled exchange with the body guard stationed at the door before it flies open and reveals --

\-- Captain Harry Lee. Drenched, panting, blue with cold, unarmed, with something like panic or urgency in his eyes. 

“Captain? Your report?” Hamilton asks, trying to mask his trepidation when _‘Where’s John?’_ is what he really wants to ask.

Lee salutes sharply and then drops into a chair, arms laid loose across his thighs as he catches his breath. “Colonel. We were successful, for the most part. We managed to burn a considerable store before we were spotted and run off by the redcoats. We lost three horses. One man wounded, one killed. And Colonel Laurens…” he trails off, his face drawn with exhaustion and regret. “He fell, guarding our retreat. We would not all have made it if it wasn’t for him.”

Hamilton stares at him, his sleep-deprived brain struggling just for a second to make sense of these words, because of course this is all some sort of misunderstanding and Lee’s just got it wrong. Laurens is surely just outside and he’s-- He’ll--

“What?” is all Hamilton can manage to say as the blood drains from his head and his vision narrows. 

“I’m sorry, sir. I wish the news was better.”

No. Alexander will _not_ believe it, not until he sees proof with his own eyes.

“Get me a horse,” he orders, and when Lee looks at him in surprise and doesn’t immediately move, he roars, “Now!”

But even though he staggers back to his feet, Lee never gets the chance to comply, because the commotion has woken up the staff and they are quickly filtering into the workroom.

Alexander cannot bear to voice this news, so he leaves Lee to retell his account - over and over as more men join them, like a cruel joke at his expense. 

He numbly feels an arm around him, and turns to look into Meade’s concerned face. 

“Hammy? You okay?”

He narrows his eyes because, of course he isn’t - and neither is John, out there alone and injured or captured or lying cold and dead in the mud or-- “I need to ride out,” he whispers. “I need to find him.”

Meade frowns, concern mingling with confusion. “You’re hurt. You can barely stand, much less sit a horse. And Captain Lee says that Laurens is… He’s gone, Hammy. Going out there won’t change it.”

Hamilton’s retort dies on his lips when the General enters. A hush sweeps the room. Washington studies Lee, his face impassive but sympathetic, and he listens to the account with a sombre air. When Lee concludes, Washington nods. 

“We will mourn our fallen brother tonight,” he says softly. “Colonel Hamilton, we must get word to the President.”

“Sir!” Hamilton finally finds his voice, which erupts in an urgent rush. “Lee could be wrong. We need to go look for John. Your Excellency, please, give me leave to go and I’ll ride out myself, it’s not far on horseback, and I’ll see if--”

“Absolutely not,” Washington interrupts.

“But, sir! If he’s injured, or captured, we must--”

“Colonel.” The word is soft, but all the more forceful for it. “The area is crawling with British forces. If he’s injured, they will have captured him; and if he’s captured, there’s nothing a few dragoons can do against the forces we know they have arrayed here. But if he is truly dead, as Captain Lee reports, then I see no benefit in adding your corpse to his.” Hamilton flushes in anger and tries to marshall fresh arguments, but the General is faster. “Now, I have ordered you to write to the President. Do not make me instruct you again.”

Hamilton bites his tongue and bows his head, the shame of being admonished in front to the family compounding his rising nausea.

Thank god for Meade’s steadying hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from 'Broken Crown' by Mumford & Sons.
> 
> Shout at us in the comments or on Tumblr - @my-deer-friend and @hamiltons-bones (Pink_raspberry)
> 
> Watch out for the next chapter tomorrow <3


	2. Like a river flows

When he pictures all the ways he might die, John Laurens thinks, hand squeezed tight around the grip of his sabre, there are far worse ways to go than this. 

A brave death in battle while his men escape, the splashing sounds of their frantic rowing already receding. Upright on his own two legs. Staring his enemy in the eye with a weapon in his hand. John has had a lot of time to think about dying, and in many ways the realisation that it’s about to happen is a relief. Honourable. Honest. Quick. Someone may even write a poem, one day, about Colonel Laurens’ noble last stand.

But there’s a snag.

Alexander.

No. He cannot afford _that_ distraction now.

He watches the redcoats approach and widens his stance and eases the grip a little - _keep your hand loose, your shoulder forward_ , he recites to himself. He wishes he still had a shot in his pistol, but he’s already fired it, and - even if it wasn’t pitch dark and his powder wasn’t soaked through - there’s no time to reload it. He swipes the wet hair away from his eyes. 

He knows they’re there, somewhere in the thick darkness, and they know he is too. There’s a moment of anticipation. Good. Every second of delay puts more distance between them and his men.

A British soldier shouts something at him, inaudible over the rush of the swollen river, and in response he just raises his sabre to make his intent clear - they’re not taking him alive.

Except that-- 

No.

He stands a good chance of taking several of them down with him, so he waits for them to move. 

There’s a roar and a flash of gunpowder, and a ball whizzes past his head; the aim is poor, or else the shot is just meant to intimidate, but the brief illumination shows Laurens their position - far closer than he thought. 

Then he stops thinking, and charges.

He catches them off guard and wrongfooted, and he feels his blade hit into something solid. A scream. Good.

He ducks instinctively at something that swings at his head and yanks his sabre free, kicking at the man he’s cut into. He brings the blade up again and slashes with a shout; misses. His heightened senses pick up movement in all directions. They’re coming up behind him. He snarls and turns in a circle, brandishing the sabre and daring them to come forward.

For the next few moments all is a blur; John’s instinct and muscle memory take over and he’s aware only of shouting and clanging and the burn in his shoulders and thighs as he repels them again and again - and somehow, not a single hit lands on him.

Perhaps their strokes are being turned away by providence, he wonders. It would be a cruel fate indeed that would deny him this chance at a soldier’s death. What else could he possibly be meant for, on this earth?

He has one idea.

Alexander.

 _Madness_ , he thinks, his lungs heaving, covered to his hips in mud. _Now_ is not the time to discover a reason to stay alive.

And yet - something about Alexander feels like unfinished business. John’s acceptance of his doom starts to fade in the presence of a pang, deep in his chest and right beside his racing heart, that he cannot bear to die without seeing Alexander one more time. That his life would be a waste without another hour in the presence of the one person who has brought him such sudden and uncomplicated joy. 

Alexander, who took just a week to prise open his rib cage and slip in, heedless of the peril. Who he could stare at for hours when he’s deeply engaged in his work - and who he _does_ stare at, sleepless and longing, when they retire to their cramped little room for the night. Alexander, who charms every person he meets and defies any classification, who swallows his initial H when he talks too fast and forgets himself, whose quick tongue throws around classical philosophies and innuendos and military strategies without missing a beat. Who he will never be allowed to touch in the way he yearns for, but in whose incandescent presence he will gladly languish, chaste and adoring.

This sudden desperate realisation saps strength from his body - or maybe it’s the dozens of blows he’s parried and returned. He falls to one knee with a squelch. 

He can barely catch his breath. He feels his enemies circling closer. Any second now, the deadly blow will land. 

Then Alexander’s voice is in his mind.

_‘_ _No, no, Jack - on your feet!’_

It’s a different context - Alexander is laughing breathlessly as John’s sash tangles around his legs, caught by surprise when the General strides into the workroom - but it’s a fitting message.

He drags himself upright, arms hanging heavy at his sides and sabre loose in his hand, head bowed. The soldiers around him are easing their postures, seeing the defeat in every line of his body - planning, perhaps, to take him alive after all.

Good. 

His eyes dart to a gap in their line and he dashes forward. He has strength enough for one last swing of the sabre as he forces himself free of the circle, slips unsteadily in the mud and then, with a great leap, flings himself into the churning river. 

***

The cold is so overwhelming that he forgets momentarily to think, to breathe. 

By chance, the current pushes him up to the surface and he gasps for air - then under - then up - over and over - until he is certain he will die of exhaustion before he can get any control over his movements.

But by another stroke of luck, the flow of the river eddies and bashes him against the bank, and he has enough presence of mind to scrabble furiously at the overhanging roots. With strength he must draw from some divine source, John hauls himself free of the water and then lies, panting and shivering in the sticky mud.

The sky above him is drawn with low, heavy clouds, but they become ragged and patchy as he watches, and soon stars are appearing. As he recovers his strength, he takes stock.

He is frozen to the bone. His uniform is a wreck of torn and sodden cloth. His pistol and sabre are gone, but the knife in his boot is still there - along with half of the Schuylkill. He is aching and bruised, but nothing is broken and he is otherwise uninjured after the fight. 

And he’s glad to be alive. That’s new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from 'Can't Help Falling in Love' by Elvis Presley.
> 
> Shout at us in the comments, or on Tumblr - @my-deer-friend and @hamiltons-bones (Pink_raspberry)
> 
> Next chapter out tomorrow <3


	3. Come wrestle me free

_President Laurens_ , Hamilton begins writing, his quill shaking badly in his numb hand, _I regret to inform you..._

He crosses that out. Regret? He’s not discussing the weather here.

_I am profoundly sorry to…_

No, no. Too personal.

_With heartfelt sorrow, the General…_

This is not how you describe the passing of a great soldier!

He flings the quill down petulantly and drops his face into his hands, belatedly realising he’s stuck his elbow into the wet ink. This triviality makes him let out an involuntary bitter laugh. None of this matters now that John is _gone_.

He hasn’t slept for two nights now, and he can feel delirium setting in. Or maybe he’s just drunk. The family raised a toast to Laurens together earlier, and as the others disperse back to their quarters, Hamilton spirits away the rest of the whiskey. As long as he can keep the suffocating grief at bay, it doesn’t matter how he does it.

He doesn’t know how he can report the death of a son to his father without internalising the event - but he cannot allow himself to accept it either. 

After all, it’s _his_ fault. 

If _only_ he’d been paying better attention at Brandywine, he would have been able to jump free of his horse when she was shot out from under him - instead of ending up on the ground in a flailing mess of human and equine limbs, winded, his knee wrenched, his ankle contused, every nerve in his leg on fire. How Lafayette spotted him in the churning earth beneath his horse he will never know, and he can remember only in vague pain-blurred snatches how he was pulled free, slung over Lafayette’s pommel and carried to safety. If he hadn’t gotten so carelessly hurt, he’d have been sent to burn the mills.

He’d been distracted, of course, by Laurens galloping past him with his sabre drawn - against orders, and right into the line of fire - as though he intended to push back the British advance single-handedly. Hamilton had pulled his horse up, gaping at the sight and simultaneously turning himself into a big, stationary target.

But it’s not just that. It’s also his fault on a more cosmic level. 

He’d let his guard down just long enough that Laurens was able to slip in behind the walls, into the dangerous orbit around him that guarantees a miserable end. Alexander knows that he is _cursed_. He knows better than to allow it to ensnare others - especially truly remarkable people like Laurens, who deserved a happier destiny. Yet he allowed it to happen, selfishly, tempting a fate that has now called his bluff. Why did he have to gamble on John, of all people?

Alexander is too tired to cry, but he musters the energy to hobble over to the smaller study off of the workroom, where a cross is nailed to the wall. He drops painfully to his knees and tries to pray.

He musters what persuasive faculties he has left and puts them all into his invocation. He offers his body, his blood, his suffering, his time, precious as it is - whatever it would take to rid him of this plague of loneliness and return him to grace. He promises to learn his lesson, confesses all the weaknesses and sins he can think of, swears to live a worthy life if only he can get a little guidance on what that actually means.

But then he gets angry. Because this black mark has been against his name since he was a child, before he could conceivably have sinned enough to earn it. Why has he been singled out never to be allowed the deeper connection he craves? Why is everyone he cares for subsumed by this doom? It isn’t fair. He’s paid for a lifetime of sin at the tender age of twenty. Surely he is owed one - _one_ \- boon?

He ignores the commotion out in the yard and sinks more heavily onto his heels.

He shifts to bargaining. He promises he won’t ever sin again, in word or deed or thought. He’ll never draw another person - another _man_ \- to him, if only God will give him a sign that he has paid enough penance now, with this latest shattering loss added to his tally. 

He begs, over and over again, for mercy.

The commotion turns to laughter, loud enough now to disturb his prayer, and how _dare_ anyone be joyful now?

Alexander drags himself back up onto his feet. He is so blinded by indignation that when he hobbles out of the room, he can’t properly see where he is going and collides with someone coming the other way. He is taken completely by surprise. He stumbles backwards, yelping as his weight shifts onto his injured knee and his leg instantly gives out. The man in front of him reacts quickly, catching Alexander by the arms before he can make a fool of himself or aggravate his injury. 

Alexander glances up to thank whoever just saved him from this fate, but the words die in his throat. 

He feels distinctly like he may collapse again. 

“Alexander?” Laurens ventures, smiling, eyebrows raised in mild concern. “Are you alright?” 

“No,” Alexander whispers. His brain is buzzing, and he feels lightheaded again. “I’ve gone mad.”

Before Laurens can say anything else, the rest of the aides swarm around them, laughing with elation and pulling John into their arms. His uniform is damp but nobody seems to care. And why would they? John is _here._ He is here, unharmed and grinning and most definitely not dead. 

Alexander can’t quite believe it. 

He’s been forgiven. 

John has been spared. 

His prayer _worked._

He puts a little distance between himself and John, sinks onto the nearest chair, and tries desperately to collect himself. To breathe. John is _alive_. Alexander has been granted a second chance. 

He will _not_ waste it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from 'Hurts Like Hell' by Fleurie.
> 
> Leave a kudos! Leave a comment! Yell on Tumblr - @my-deer-friend and @hamiltons-bones (Pink_raspberry)
> 
> A slightly shorter one today, with a longer chapter to make up for it tomorrow!


	4. Something you can’t replace

As the adrenaline of his ordeal wears off, John ignores his surfacing aches and exhaustion and hunts for Alexander, who has vanished. He is desperate for contact.

But John is addled with tiredness, so he doesn’t think to check their shared room until much later that evening - and only after he’s reported the misadventure to Washington and the rest of the staff and gone to reassure a distraught Harry Lee that he did the right thing by leading the others to safety instead of coming back for him.

The tiredness is in his bones when he pushes open the door and finds Alexander sitting on his own bed, still fully dressed and writing messily. His eyes are red and his jaw is set in the way that, John has learned, means he is trying to focus despite something that’s distracting him.

“I’ve been looking for you,” John says with a relieved smile as he sits heavily on his own bed. 

Alexander hums noncommittally. 

_This is strange,_ John thinks. He was expecting a warmer welcome.

“I hear that I gave everyone quite a fright,” he says lightly, trying to thaw the mood. 

“What you _did_ ,” Alexander finally says, and his quill stops moving but his eyes remain fixed on the paper before him, “Is disobey instructions and then waste everyone’s time. I lost a whole day of work trying to deal with your mess.”

There is venom here - why is Alexander lashing out? John hauls himself from his bed, little though he has the energy for it, and steps across the room to sit down next to Alexander. He puts a hand on his shoulder; a safe touch they have shared before, even in company.

“I’m sorry that you were upset on my account. Forgive me?”

Alexander shrugs off the hand and shuffles away until he is off the bed and on his feet. “I told you, I’m busy. I don’t have time to deal with you right now.”

And now John is starting to get annoyed, because - yes - he may have caused Alexander some hurt, but it wasn’t his choice to do so. He fought so hard to get back, and now he’s drained and he just wants his friend’s comfort and affection.

“Alex, what’s wrong?”

Alexander glances at him briefly before he starts stacking his papers. “I’ll find somewhere else to work,” he mutters as he turns to leave the room.

And this is enough for John - he hasn’t earned this evasiveness. The anger gets him back onto his feet. “I don’t get it!” he snaps, grabbing Alexander by the shoulder and forcing him to turn around. He immediately regrets it when he sees Alexander stumble and flinch as his weight falls on his bad leg. “Am I inconveniencing you by being alive? Are you angry at me because I survived?” 

“No.” Alexander’s glare is icy, but there’s something else there too, in the flare of his nose and the flicker in his eye. Something scared. “I’m angry at myself. I’m angry because my carelessness put you out there in the first place. I’m _angry_ ,” he takes a step back, forcing John’s hand off his shoulder, “Because we had to receive a report of your death on account of that. Because, for a day, you _were_ dead!”

John stares blankly at Alexander, bewildered. Alexander’s gaze flits over his face, searching for - something. Sympathy? Understanding? John doesn’t know what Alexander is trying to say, what conclusion he’s supposed to arrive at from these oblique insights. Alexander may be super-humanly perceptive, but John isn’t. As he’s trying to work it out, Alexander scoffs, shaking his head. The trace of vulnerability that was there before has been wiped clean. If anything, he seems more guarded than ever. 

“Of course you don’t understand,” Alexander says. His voice is low, cruel. John wants to weep with exhausted frustration. 

“Then explain it to me, please,” John begs. “I can’t-- I don’t know what I’ve done wrong. I came back for _you_.” 

The admission slips out. He reaches out to touch Alexander, to take his hand, but Alexander takes another step back, as if he’s afraid that John’s touch will burn him. John frowns, his heart thudding with rising worry. What has happened in the course of one day to cause so much distance to grow between them?

He tries again. “Alexander, you’re the dearest friend I’ve ever had,” he says, confused by the look of alarm on Alexander’s face. “We’ve only known each other for a few weeks, but I already feel like I can truly be myself around you. You’re the first person I’ve met who’s ever been unconditionally kind - not for my father, or my connections, but for _me._ Alexander, you make me feel like I’m _worth_ something. And I know you care for me; I’ve seen it.” He reaches out again, and again Alexander flinches from him. John’s voice falls to a whisper. “Why won’t you even let me touch you?”

He swallows thickly and studies Alexander - desperate for a glimpse of reassurance, for anything other than the fearful, wide-eyed expression or the way he has bodily backed into a corner of the room. 

John would give _anything_ to take that look away. 

“Don't delude yourself, John,” Alexander says, after a pause, feigning disinterest. “You are a useful colleague, but there’s nothing more to it. Whatever other affection you may imagine between us is--” 

And John would almost buy it, if not for the tangible undercurrent of emotion that belies the words.

“No,” John interrupts. “You’re lying.” Alexander doesn’t meet his eye when he huffs a surprised laugh. He’s slipping away. John must say or do something quickly. He steps forward and reaches out cautiously, trying not to appear threatening. “But I don’t know why. Tell me.” 

Alex glares at him with such intensity that John drops his hand. “You’re making a mistake.”

“Then tell me - please - how to fix this. I’ll do it. Anything. Just… please don’t shut me out.” John reaches forward again and tries to take hold of Alexander, who makes a choked-off sound in the back of his throat. He leans in almost imperceptibly, as if he wants to surrender, thaw into John’s arms, but then seems to catch himself. 

Alexander’s voice is rigid when he speaks. “Keep your distance, John - for your own good. Now, like I’ve told you, there is work that I must see to.” Cold, dismissive. He brushes past John, keeping his eyes down. 

John stares after him, mouth hanging open in surprise. In hurt. He doesn’t have the strength to go after him again. 

***

They glare at each other across the map of the Philadelphia surrounds.

The British have taken the city - a colossal strategic loss - and have garrisoned in the surrounding homesteads. Washington wants to catch them by surprise in one last bloody action; other generals prefer to regroup for the winter and reconsider. The family sits together and debates, long into the night. They’ve been at it for hours.

“Morale is low,” Alexander is saying, still perfectly focused and collected. “Another defeat in a row would be a disaster. I don’t think we can risk it.”

They've been over this. John can't bare to rehash it. “So, what - we _retreat_?” he snaps, getting to his feet. Everyone in the room turns to look at him, and he realises belated that he has raised his voice.

His temper has been getting the better of him lately, but that’s hardly a surprise, since he has just lost his best, if briefest, friend. He still doesn’t know why, but it doesn’t change the fact. There are no more affectionate glances, no whispered conversations in the middle of the night, no tender or encouraging touches in private moments - nothing but cool, professional indifference from Alexander. 

He has no one else to confide in or to comfort him. So, of course he is feeling brittle.

“Sir,” Alexander says, aiming his reply at Washington, “Desertions alone will likely cripple us over the winter. We can’t afford to lose any more men, or to give them any more doubt about our chances at an ultimate victory.”

John responds with his eyes on Alexander. “In that case, we can even _less_ afford a spiritless withdrawal. War is not all practicality. Gestures matter. _Courage_ matters.”

“Sit down, John,” Alexander says.

He doesn’t sit. “You would give it all up without a fight.”

“You mean delay and reconsider, for the safety of the men and the preservation of the greater effort? Yes!”

“Without even a chance for them to prove their worth?”

Alexander’s eyes narrow. “Perhaps it is precisely _because_ I prize them that I want to spare them the risk.”

“Then you’re a coward.” John knows this is a spiteful and targeted blow - but Alexander has hurt him so much already, why not pay him back in kind?

“How _dare_ you?” And now Alexander jumps up from his chair. John distantly senses other eyes on them, but his focus is narrowed on the one man he loves and who - without explanation - has cast his affection away. “Don’t you see that bravery is not just cavalry charges and noble deaths? Can you not understand the pain, the strength, the fortitude it takes to sacrifice chasing after that brief, bright glimmer for the sake of a better outcome in the future?”

John knows they’re not talking about the battle plan anymore. His anger spirals uncontrollably.

“When the army is audacious and bold, we win. When we risk, we succeed. It is only when we cower and overthink and let caution steer us that we go wrong. You’d deny these men the chance to prove their merit and love - love for the cause - because _you_ are afraid?” He has rendered Alexander speechless for just a second, so he forges on. This may be his only chance, if Alexander refuses to have this conversation in private. “Perhaps you should trust the truth of their devotion. Allow them to decide, instead of taking away the choice entirely. Don’t you want to win?”

“It’s not a question of winning. Right now, it’s survival.” Alexander puts a little inflection into the last word, but John is too fogged with passion to interpret it.

“Well, then, I would choose a brief and glorious life over a long and fearful one.”

“And a brief life is all you will get if you continue down this path!”

“Yet I do not see any other paths before us, if you steal away even this faint hope.”

“Why can’t you understand that this is for your own good?” Alexander yells and hits the table with his hand. He immediately catches the error. “Our good, I mean. The army.” 

“That’s enough,” Washington orders. They sit down like scolded children.

After that, Alexander avoids his eye completely. They don’t speak another word to each other, and when Washington orders the attack on Germantown, John delights at his second chance to find a brave exit.

After all, it is clear that he has nothing left for him here, on earth. Nothing to make struggling through his existence worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from 'Fix You' by Coldplay.
> 
> Leave a kudos! Leave a comment! Yell on Tumblr - @my-deer-friend and @hamiltons-bones (Pink_raspberry)
> 
> Two more chapters to go.


	5. How rare and beautiful

Alexander sits at John’s bedside with his portable writing desk and distracts himself from the feverish and unmoving body beside him with endless correspondence. There is so much to do. Philadelphia has slipped from their grasp and the army must move - _somewhere_. 

Alexander no longer understands what message providence wants to send him. Allowing John to get close to him almost led to his death. But pushing him away did the same - and here John lies, fighting against a life-threatening fever caused by the knife that ripped his shoulder open at Germantown. Another unnecessary and reckless action that has ended in disaster. 

How has he gotten it all so badly wrong? And how can he fix this mess, if only to spare John further peril? He’d give anything to know the answer to this riddle. 

Perhaps, he considers bitterly, there is no grand cosmic test after all; perhaps their fates are already sealed, so how they act doesn’t make a difference. It’s a testament to how tired he is that he readily concedes this loss of control.

If it really doesn't matter, then he’d rather be here. With John.

Meade brings all of his letters to the doctor’s tent without comment, sometimes accompanied by a bowl of some brown porridge - which he half-heartedly starts and then abandons - or some wine, which he accepts more readily.

Alexander directs troop movements and bosses generals around from his little chair at John’s bedside. He’s also sitting there when he writes out Washington’s order confirming that Laurens has been appointed an official aide-de-camp.

In the moments when he runs out of work, or his eyes lose focus in the weak candle light, he reaches out and takes John’s uninjured left hand in his, checking his pulse, his temperature, whether his skin still feels clammy and cold. For days John gets neither better or worse, just remains in this limbo, as though he’s waiting for some sort of sign.

And in a perverse way, Alexander is perfectly content to stay in this liminal space with John forever - together, in a way, but without having to face John’s searching eyes or desperate questions; without having to see John fling himself into battle as though he thinks nobody cares if he lives or dies. Physically, emotionally, they are safer here.

But Laurens does recover. He stirs in the middle of the night and wakes by degrees, swinging between lucidity and delirium for hours. Alexander stays at his side and holds a cold compress against his head as his fever starts to break. He murmurs news and gossip, to keep his mind busy and to reassure John that he is there, waiting.

When John finally rises fully to wakefulness, Alexander feels a pang at the look of undisguised surprise on his face. 

“You’re… here?” John croaks, eyes narrowed in confusion.

“Of course I am. You’re my dearest friend.”

“Right,” John sighs, and Alexander deserves that skeptical note. John turns to stare up at the cloth roof above them. The silence between them stretches out.

“Do you need anything?” Alexander eventually asks.

He sees a few subtle shifts in John’s expression before he says, “Something to eat.”

Alexander makes to stand, but he realises he’s gripping John’s hand. He doesn't remember taking it. John seems to notice it at the same time.

“Oh,” is all Alexander says, before he gently pulls away. He sees John tighten the freed hand into a fist.

He slips out of the tent to find some food. The camp is in upheaval as preparations are made to move to their winter barracks, but he manages to find some fresh porridge and a precious late-autumn apple. When he returns, John is sitting up gingerly and conversing with the doctor, who examines the wound and prescribes John some watered-down whiskey; the only analgesic they have at the moment.

Alexander hands him the meagre rations and sits back down. He tries to get back to his writing as John eats, but he feels John’s heavy gaze on him, distracting and uncomfortable. Eventually he cannot ignore it anymore. 

"What?" he snaps.

John doesn’t look away.

“I need you to decide, Alexander. Do you care for me, or don’t you?”

John gets right to the crux of it - mercilessly perceptive for a man who was just recently hovering on the boundary of life and death.

“You should rest.”

“No.” John’s voice is steady and consequential. “You owe me an explanation. You never told me why you pushed me away. Alexander, I fought like _hell_ to get away from the soldiers that ambushed us. I jumped into a torrential river because it was the only chance I had to make it back alive. And I did it all so I could come back to you. I thought there was a _you_ to return to.”

Alexander squeezes his eyes shut against the quiet clarity in John’s confession.

John continues. “I’d considered letting that moment at the Schuylkill be my last. I even welcomed it, at first. A soldier’s death.” John cuts himself off with a bitter laugh. “I mean, that’s what enticed me here in the first place.” He makes a face, reconsidering his words. “Well, not entirely. But it was a part of my decision. Then, all of a sudden, I thought about you, and--”

Alexander swallows at the way John is looking at him, despite everything he has said and done. Like he is precious and profound, worth cherishing. Worth _loving._ He shifts in his seat uncomfortably. 

“Alexander, I didn’t want to die without seeing you again. I survived so I could have the chance to hear your voice. To hold your hand.” His voice falters and he closes his eyes, exhaling gently as if caught up in a familiar daydream. “So when I came back and you acted like you were terrified of the sight of me, like you were angry with me just for _being_ there, I-- I couldn’t bear it.”

Alexander exhales shakily, worried about where this conversation may take them. In the past, they have alluded to the raw tension that pulls their relationship taut, have made innuendos about the two of them that suggest feelings that are more than platonic or fraternal, but they haven’t done anything irreversible yet. 

That _yet_ is crucial. 

Alexander is terrified that John might solidify their sin by speaking it into existence and damning them both. 

John continues. “I went into the action thinking that you didn’t care about me, and - goodness - I’m still not sure if you do.” He runs his unhurt hand down his face. “I thought, well, if Alexander doesn’t care whether I live or die, then…” He trails off, then finds his voice again. “Then why should I?” 

The waver in John’s words almost brings Alexander to tears. He is too stricken to speak. The reason John threw himself so foolishly, so _purposefully_ into danger - was him. His rejection. His fault. Not some divine destiny, just his own mortal failing. Guilt draws his chest tight, making it difficult to draw breath. 

John’s new heights of recklessness on the battlefield make a lot more sense now. 

“You need to take better care of yourself. You’re too precious,” Alexander says, once he’s able to string a coherent sentence together. 

John scoffs. “Yes, I know. To the war effort.” 

There’s a hollowness in the statement that convinces Alexander to say what he has been avoiding. Perhaps, if nothing else, it will prevent John seeking out a fresh tragedy.

“To me.”

Their eyes finally meet, and much of the distance that Alexander has been putting between them crumbles away. Their hands find each other and grip together tightly, unconscious but magnetic.

“Then why--?” John starts.

“I’m afraid,” Alexander admits, holding his gaze. 

“That’s okay,” John says, squeezing his trembling hand. “Because I’m terrified too.”

Alexander shakes his head. “No, you don’t understand. I don’t know how to be near you without wanting to draw you in completely. Everything, or nothing. I can’t exist in the middle ground.”

“Then do it. I am willing.” And he feels John tugging his hand closer, pulling him forward, and Alexander shakes his head helplessly. 

“John, I can’t. I refuse to be your ruin.”

But John seems undeterred. “Destiny spared me when it need not have done so. I cannot see why, if not to put me at your side.”

Alexander’s throat tightens as he runs low on arguments. “We’re fighting a war. If you die, it would be my doing. Yes, you’ve been lucky, but for how long? And when we are inevitably separated - and you go south while I go north - what then? And-- After?”

“You’re right,” John says, and for a moment Alexander thinks he will finally draw back, make this easier. But he continues. “Nothing is certain. Are we therefore not compelled to make the best of every moment? And, what’s more, you may keep your distance from me, but I am not obliged to do the same.”

Alexander has only one arrow left in his quiver. “What you are suggesting is sinful.”

John smiles sadly. “It is not a sin to love, Alexander. I am content just with that. Certainly I would desire more, but I will not damn you if you do not embrace it willingly too.” There’s a note of resignation here, as though John has already decided that his fate in this regard is sealed.

Alexander has no more words, but his hand clutches John’s tightly, and he hopes it speaks the sentiments he dares not voice.

***

And when John is healed again, in the quiet moments between the terrors and tediums of war, Alexander allows himself to be damned too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from 'Saturn' by Sleeping At Last.
> 
> Leave a kudos! Leave a comment! Yell on Tumblr - @my-deer-friend and @hamiltons-bones (Pink_raspberry)
> 
> On we go, to the epilogue!


	6. Sing, O Muse

A strange fog comes over Alexander when he receives the letter of John’s passing. It doesn’t lift for weeks, and it’s not grief - Eliza has seen her share of that. There’s a different texture to the pain.

In fact, she thinks that she’s the only one who can see it. After all, Alexander still comes to meals with the family; still goes to work and sees his clients; still charms and entertains the guests at the endless dinner parties they attend as they ascend the social ranks; still comes to bed and lies beside her each night. 

But the letter creates a sudden gulf between him and the rest of the world that is so vast it’s like he’s stranded on an island surrounded by an ocean of aloneness. Her arms are long, but even she cannot reach him there.

He doesn’t speak John’s name, and he doesn’t commit a word to paper about him. Of all things, this frightens her the most, because Alexander works his thoughts and feelings out through the ink in his quill. But this - this _something_ \- seems to bottle up inside him.

The fog lingers, like a heavy coat he cannot shrug.

She notices the little mentions he starts to drop into conversation about God and sin and fate but does not remark on them; he’s never been devout in the way she is, and she hopes perhaps this - this horrid _something_ \- will draw him closer to his faith. She does not allow herself to linger on why.

And in the quiet moments when it is just the two of them - rare, precious times amid their overwhelming mutual duties - she sometimes sees him look at her with suspicion. It’s not the fear of a jealous lover, but rather the anxiety of a child who dreads that a treasured toy will be snatched away. Sometimes he reaches out as though to confirm she is real and solid. When she comes to hold him and soothe his exhausted brow, he touches her with absolute tenderness and absolute distance. And then Eliza starts to feel the loneliness infecting her, too.

One Sunday, Alexander stays seated in the church pew after the sermon has concluded, looking thoughtful and withdrawn, and Eliza remains at his side. 

It is a while before he speaks.

“Betsey, how do you think God accounts our sins?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“If God knows and sees all, past and future, then could he not dole out punishments when he chooses?”

“I’m not sure I follow,” she says, but she tries to sound encouraging. 

“I am struggling with the notion of causality,” he admits, his eyes firmly on the cross hanging above the altar. “Either God knows everything, as the scripture says, and can therefore choose when to punish us at his will for the sins we commit - such that, for example, a child may suffer for a crime he commits much later in life. Or - as one may read elsewhere - God allows us free will, but then there is no shape or purpose to our suffering, and it’s just a matter of luck. Some sinners face no consequences, while some who are innocent suffer unjustly and without cause.”

Eliza frowns at her skirt. She doesn’t like the frisson of doubt he is evoking in her.

“God has a plan,” she counters. “Perhaps you are incorrect that suffering is necessarily punishment. Perhaps sometimes God sends us bad things to teach us a lesson or to strengthen our faith.”

He laughs sourly. “A benevolent torturer?”

“A _father_ ,” she insists. “When you pull Philip away from the hearth and smack his hand, you want to show him the peril of reaching for something dangerous. The pain reinforces the lesson. And,” she elaborates, nodding as the words come to her, “The pain of the smack is less than the pain he would have felt if he’d burnt himself. Just as terrestrial pain is nothing like the eternal suffering of hell.”

“The closer we stray to damnation, the sharper the warning?” 

“Something like that.”

“Hmm.” 

He continues to stare at the cross for a long time, and when Eliza chances a glance at his face, she reads the little lines as anger. But who - or what - he may be angry at, she cannot tell.

At length, Alexander stands. He smiles warmly at her and offers her his hand. 

They walk home side by side, together in their loneliness.

_fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a kudos! Leave a comment! Yell on Tumblr - @my-deer-friend and @hamiltons-bones (Pink_raspberry)
> 
> I expect 500 words on the topic of "Who/what is Alexander angry about?" on my desk by Friday.


End file.
